


Have You Tried...?

by Iocane



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Chronic Illnesses, Chronic Pain, Connor has chronic pain, M/M, illness with no cause, or an android version of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iocane/pseuds/Iocane
Summary: Connor's hand begins to malfunction.  No cause is found, and no treatment works.or The One Where Connor Develops Chronic PainMore info in the notes





	Have You Tried...?

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on three words that every chronic condition sufferer is sick and tired of hearing.
> 
> Despite how it's listed, the story itself is done.
> 
> This is a compressed version of how it works for most of is. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it's a long, drawn out version of how quickly we deteriorate. Because we're all different.
> 
> Inspired by a chat on the Hank Con Big Bang 2019 discord server.
> 
> This is based entirely on my own, personal experiences and emotions. As a result, I found it very painful to write, so there was minimal editing done because I don't want to relive it again thx.
> 
> I may expand on things at a later time, tell other parts of Connor's new life, but this is finished for now.

"Fuckin' hate the cold," Hank grumbled as they approached the crime scene.

"And yet you live in a city not exactly known for its warmth.  One of the coldest in the country, in fact."

"You can always wait in the car." They both knew he wouldn't, nor did Hank truly want him to.

"I'm aware, Lieutenant." With a nod to the officers already on scene, they approached the body.   Several temperature warnings regarding Connor's left hand popped up. He dismissed them, flexing his fingers the way Hank did when they were cold.  

He crouched and took his samples, ignoring Hank's showy protestations.  After more than year, one would think he was used to it.

He dismissed several more temperature alerts as he stood, rubbing his hands together. Relaying his information to Hank, and taking a careful look around, they finally decided there was nothing left to do.  Taking the information and what little tangible evidence there was, they went back to the station house.

For the remainder of the day, and for several following days, Connor's hand continued sending low-priority temperature warnings  An annoyance, but only that. Dismissing them with a mental flick, he continued with whatever tasks he'd been engaged in. Every now and then he rubbed his hands together, an attempt to warm them with friction in case his hand truly was cold for some reason.  Except that it happened both at the station house, Hank's car, their house, and crime scenes. 

"I believe my hand is malfunctioning." He waited until they were home and dinner was finished.

"I noticed you've been wiggling it lately.  Did you hit it maybe?" Hank flipped through the channels absently.

"I considered the possibility.  I didn't immediately recall doing so, but even when I checked my body recordings going back two weeks, I found nothing."

"Maybe go back further? One time I broke my wrist, didn't know it for a goddamn month because all I did was bang it on some dude's head in a mosh pit."

"A broken wrist is not an insignificant injury, Hank." It was decades old but Connor still felt a surge of concern.  "You don't display masochistic tendencies."

"I'm not.  It wasn't that big of a deal, it didn't hurt much.  I realized that I was getting this stab of pain every time I bent my wrist like so," He demonstrated, hand perpendicular to the rest of his arm.  "I didn't even go to the ER, just my regular doctor."

"I see." Connor scanned Hank's wrist, and when he looked close enough, he found the bone, one of the small ones that allowed wrists to flex as they did.  On the bone was a fine line, healed and aged.

Taking Hank's point, Connor went through over a year's worth of constantly monitored body states.  "Except for the scuffle in Cyberlife towers last year, I apparently haven't so much as knocked it against my desk."

While he spoke, a few more temperature warnings came up.  He dismissed them, only to have them replaced with a damage alert.  He couldn't dismiss that one so easily, even after falsifying a parts correction update.  Experimentally, he pinched the fingertip the alert said was damaged. When he let go, the alert vanished.  Curious, and annoying.

Connor scheduled himself an exam at Jericho Tower, Formally Cyberlife.  Thankfully they had a time open the following day, late in the evening. 

Throughout the following day, Connor devoted his spare processing power to attempting to find a solution, only coming up empty.  Dismissing the temperature warnings took no time at all, but it was annoying to have to constantly do so.

"I appreciate the ride, Hank," Connor said as they passed through the gates to Jericho Tower.  "You needn't wait, I don't know how long it'll be."

"If it gets to be an hour and you're not done, I'll head home.  Got nothing else to do." He flashed Connor a smile, which he returned.

Inside, Connor was led to an exam room, Hank opting to wait outside.  The android who came to see them had his skin deactivated, a practice that was becoming fashionable.  The exchange was brief, Connor relaying the record of phantom alerts, his own search for a cause, and lack of injury.

With connor's permission, a diagnostic program was temporarily connected to his code, examining every line, every keystroke, each carefully maintained corruption that added up to deviancy.

He could find nothing and told Connor so.  Since the faulty alerts came from a single biocomponent cluster, a replacement was suggested.  The faulty unit would be examined, repaired if possible, and reused.

He gripped his wrist, then paused.  He wasn't scared of the pain, he didn't feel pain the way humans did, not even as a deviant.  A strange kind of anxiety came over him. What if the replacement didn't feel right? What if, because he was a prototype, it didn't fit right?  When his worry was interrupted by a series of temperature alerts and not one but two damage alarms, Connor scowled. A squeeze, a pull, a faint popping sound and his damaged hand was gone, and with it the notifications.

When Connor emerged, Hank was in a chair, hands folded over his rounded belly, head back, eyes closed.  He allowed himself to savor the relaxed pose for a moment. As if sensing he was being watched, Hank lifted his head and spotted Connor.  "Forget something?" 

At Hank's confused look, Connor tipped his head to the side, then realized.  He had only been out of sight for about five minutes. "Exams are very quick for androids, owing to the nature of our data exchange.  Installing the new hand took the most time." He held up his new component, identical to his old one.

"Wow.  Did it work?" Hank stood and they began to stroll out to the car.

"That remains to be seen," Connor admitted.  He hadn't had any notifications yet, but he could go hours without before.

In this case, as it turned out, he went five hours and twenty seven minutes with no false alarms, then they resumed at least once an hour, usually far more often.

Obviously the biocomponent itself wasn't the problem.  "I need to request a day off," Connor told Hank in the evening, a few days later.  He had hoped that the problem would resolve itself now that he had replaced it.

"Hand still wigging out?" Hank sounded concerned, seeing the way Connor was flexing his fingers.

"Yes.  They did a standard brief diagnostic when I was there yesterday, but found no errors in my code.  The next option is a much more ... intensive examination." Connor was not very comfortable with the idea, but he also didn't like malfunctioning.  He'd already had control of his own body wrested away from him once, he did not wish to experience it again, even in small parts.

"So ... last time you had an X-ray, this time you need an MRI?"

It was overly simplistic but essentially accurate.  "Something like that, yes." He looked at his hand, flexing it while he dismissed another handful of alerts.  Looking down at them as he rubbed his hands together, he took a breath, opened his mouth, then the question died on his lips.  It was too much. He knew Hank regarded him as a friend, a close one. Possibly even his best friend. There had to be limits of what he could ask, however.  Connor was, for all intents and purposes, an adult. He should be able to undergo a deep diagnostic without a human to hold his hand. Still, he found himself repeating the attempt, indrawn breath, mouth opened, then snapped shut, this time with a faint shake of his head.

Hank turned, taking a swallow his beer before regarding Connor. "Out with it, Con," his commanding words were belied by the softness of his voice.

"A deep diagnostic is, as I said, an invasive procedure.  It requires several hours and they will not be comfortable ones.  Due to the nature of the exam, I won't be able to shut down, or to retreat too far into my head to pass the time unawares."

"Jesus, sounds fuckin' awful.  You sure you want to do that?" Hank's blue eyes were filled with concern.

"Since Amanda  succeeded in gaining control of my body, even for a few seconds, I have developed what you might call control issues, regarding my own bodily autonomy.  I didn't realize it until recently - my body hasn't been out of my control since that day, until now."

"Yeah, that makes a lot of sense." Hank gave a nod, then flicked a bit of hair off his face, his micro expression of annoyance reminding Connor of how he felt every time an alert showed up, and he couldn't help but smile.

"I understand completely if you don't wish to take a day, but if you would be willing to accompany me to the exam, your company would be very much appreciated." He knew he sounded more like Nines right now, but sometimes nerves brought it out in him, it was easy to fall back on his coding.

"Oh!" Hank gave a smile.  "Sure. Of course. I'll do anything I can to help, Con."  Before now, Hank's hand had been merely draped over the back of the couch, but now it moved to squeeze his shoulder.  "Anything you need."

"Thank you," Connor managed an uneasy smile, part of him wanting to nuzzle into his side, to tuck close to Hank and pretend his body wasn't going haywire.  Instead, he simply offered to schedule his exam and file the paperwork requesting their time off.

Unfortunately, it would be two weeks before Jericho Towers would have the necessary individuals available for a long enough block of time to conduct the deep diagnostic.  He made the appointment, submitted the request for time off, and did his best not to be excessively irritated at the long weight.

"Does anything help?" Hank asked at work a few days later, after watching Connor vigorously shake his hand in an effort to disable the alerts for more than a few minutes.

"Nothing consistently," Connor snapped, then grimaced. "My apologies," he said in a calmer tone.  "External stimulation can temporarily override the malfunction, but not all the time."

Hank waved off the snap and grimaced himself at Connor's words.  "Sounds awful. I-I mean, I don't know if it'll do anything, but I had an aunt who had nerve damage.  She used to keep her hand in a bowl of cold water when it was really bad. I know you guys even work the same way but ..." He shrugged, then looked embarrassed as he turned back to his work.

Connor didn't think it would have the same effect for him, but it warmed him that Hank was trying to help.  "Thank you, I appreciate the thought."

Two days later, as soon as they got home, Connor stuffed his hand in a bowl of ice water out of sheer frustration.  If his hand was going to constantly tell him it was cold, he would demonstrate what cold actually was.

Unsurprisingly, his vision was almost instantly obscured by countless notices of extreme temperature, and several damage alerts.  Instead of dismissing them, he drew his hand out of the water, and stuck it under a warm tap. The vast majority of the notifications vanished on their own and that in itself was a relief.

Three temperature warnings and one damage alert remained.  He kept his hand under the tap long enough that heat warnings began to appear.  Finally withdrawing it and dismissing all notifications, he dried his hand. "I'm going to walk Sumo," he said, doing so earlier than usual but at this moment he didn't want to be around anyone, not even Hank.

By the time he returned, his nerves had settled somewhat, and he had a small but heavily laden pizza in hand.  Hank had been behaving himself, partly on his own and partly through Connor's manipulations. He had also been remarkably tolerant of Connor's mood the last few days.  "I would like to apologize, for snapping at you, and for the fact that I will, despite my best efforts, be doing so again, unless this situation resolves itself."

Hank smiled and shook his head as he took the pizza.. "Shit, Con, you didn't have to do that.  I mean, I'm not cheering every time you get grumpy, but Christ, you've got malfunctioning parts, that'll make anyone cranky."

"Your understanding is appreciated." Connor winced at how formal he sounded.  Then he rested his hand on Hank's shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you," he said with more sincerity.

Hank reached up, catching Connor's hand and giving it a firm squeeze in return.  Briefly, insanely, Connor had hoped the persistent notices would disappear on being touched.  They didn't. In fact, two more appeared, but nevertheless, it felt nice. Hank's rough skin, the warmth, the pressure when he squeezed, settled the remainder of Connor's jangled nerves.

The touch lingered, Connor standing behind the couch, Hank's hand just resting atop his.  Finally Hank gave another squeeze, rubbing Connor's hand briefly and lowered his arm. 

Since he didn't have to cook, there was nothing to clean.  Once he hung his jacket, Connor took up his usual spot on the couch.  Well, not quite his usual spot. Normally, he sat at the opposite end, leaving the center cushion empty.  This time, with some momentary hesitation, and hoping he hadn't misread the moment earlier, he sat on the center cushion.  

Hank smiled and the hand that had been draped over the back of the couch lifted, this time his hand resting on Conor's shoulder.   It didn't help the problem of his notices, that plagued him on and off all evening, but it helped him tolerate them more.

That pattern continued through the next few days.  Connor doing his best not to snap, occasionally failing, and then tucking against Hank after dinner.  He could go hours without any notifications, and then have them non stop for the same span of time. 

More than once he'd called Jericho, hoping to get his appointment moved up.  He'd take a hit at work for failing to show if it came to that.

With three days until his deep diagnostic, Connor felt he was almost getting used to it.  The temperature alerts, for both hot and cold now, he dismissed with a mental flick. The damage alerts he had to let pile up most of the time.  They didn't impair his vision much, since they were small and could be made transparent, but they didn't go away without more effort. 

In the evening, he did what he could to 'repair' the nonexistent damage.  Nothing was consistent, so he, and Hank once he broke down and asked, had a number of things to try.  

Connor's favorite, and the one they started with at Hank's insistence, was a hand massage.  Those strong fingers working his fingers certainly did something to Connor that left him feeling warm.  But they didn't do anything about the damage alerts, except when they did. If he squeezed or pulled just right, sometimes one of them vanished.

The only thing that worked for most of them was Connor's least favorite, and some nights he didn't try it at all.  Taking his hand off and replacing it. Hank had turned green the first time he'd done it in front of him, with his permission.  It wasn't the only reason he preferred not to. The cold absence of sensation, however brief, was deeply disconcerting, and only worth it when the alerts were especially persistent.

Another side effect that was becoming evident was Connor had less energy.  He was still plenty energetic by human standards, and no one, except maybe Hank, would have noticed.

He was tucked into Hank's side one evening when he got a low thirium notice, a few days ahead of schedule.  Thinking it just another malfunction, he dismissed it. Unlike the others, this one came back instantly. Two more flicks and he actually looked at his levels.  

"Con?" Hank frowned when he stood.

"Oil change," he grumbled, hoping the teasing words would help Hank ignore his surly tone.  Thirium in hand, he settled back on the couch. This time, he drew his legs up, compressing himself a little and tucking even more firmly against Hank.

"You okay?" Hank asked softly.

"No." He defiantly stuck his thirum straw into his mouth and sucked, silently hoping Hank didn't ask for elaboration.

Hank regarded him for a long moment, but all he did was lift his hand, brush it through Connor's hair, then replace it on his shoulder and squeeze.

Nuzzling closer in silent thanks, Connor retreated into his own head to try and figure it out.  It didn't take long. Every time a alert popped up, for damage or temperature, it triggered a background diagnostic.  Because it was a subroutine, it didn't notify Connor, and because of its low priority and minimal resource drain, he couldn't stop it without compromising his functioning, at least temporarily.  

A single low priority, minimal resource diagnostic wasn't the problem.  It was the fact that his system wound up running thousands upon thousands of them in a single day.  Every single notification prompted a diagnostic, and he would get as many as twenty at a time. And at three hours, he almost always had hundreds more before the first were finished.  The result was a slow but steady trickle of energy.

He wanted to scream in frustration, hating what was happening.  All he did, however, was calmly set his empty thirium bottle on the coffee table, wrap both arms around his legs and lean against Hank.

The day before his exam - which he had since come to liken more to a human biopsy than an MRI - an awkward but fruitful discussion had resulted in him spending the night in Hank's room.  It was an occasion that would be repeated nightly for the foreseeable future.

Androids didn't sleep the way humans did, but even stasis, Connor was dimly aware of his surroundings.  The presence of Hank, warm and solid and asleep beside him was a comfort. More than once, when the pile up of notices forced him out of stasis, he tucked up against Hank, giving his broad chest a squeeze.  He still had to dismiss the dozens and dozens of notices, but it was easier with his face pressed into Hank's chest.

When they arrived in the room for his deep diagnostic, the three androids who would be conducting it were at first reluctant to allow Hank inside.  Feeling both terrified and foolhardy, he laced their fingers together and made it clear his presence was not negotiable.

"It may be disturbing, we'll need to access his hardware directly.  He will bleed."

"I've seen worse, and he wants me here."

Connor's pump swelled at that.  Eventually, a chair was provided so Hank could sit beside the table Connor would be strapped to.

"Part of the procedure," one of them explained coldy "Is a thorough testing of his limbs and mobility, which requires that he move.  This ensures he doesn't move enough to dislodge the connections.

Everything was amping up Connor's nerves and he wasn't even bothering to dismiss the notices.  "You can go, if you want," he offered to Hank. He'd been aware, clinically, of what would happen, but the procedure was far more frightening now that he was here.  And he could only imagine how it was for Hank.

Hank reached a hand ot, cupping Connor's cheek.  "Said I'd hold your hand." Then he paired it with a kiss, leaning forward and brushing a light kiss to Connor's lips.

When the procedure began, Connor found it draining to speak, and realized conversation wasn't a viable option.  So he asked Hank to simply speak to him. Tell him stories, about his life before Connor, tell him things he already knew, just speak.  That low, rough voice simultaneously grounded him, and took him away.

Several times during the procedure, the cascade of notices, the sensations being pushed through his synthetic nerves, and his raw emotions had his chest shuddering and tears streaking down his cheeks.  Hank didn't draw attention to it, didn't do or say anything that would require a response. All he did was take out his handkerchief and tenderly wipe at Connor's face until things settled for a little while.

"We found nothing in the immediate results," one of the techs informed them as the other two were disconnecting and unstrapping Connor.  "We'll examine the results more thoroughly in the next few days and contact you with the results."

Connor tried to respond but he was wiped, more drained than he'd been i a long time.  The last time he felt like this was trapped in the zen garden, searching for a way out.

"Thanks.  I can take him home now, right?" Hank asked, and Connor was glad he was taking charge, at least taking that off his shoulders.

He wasn't aware of much for a little while, only coming back to himself when Hank eased him up out of the car, drawing Connor's arm around his shoulder. "Didn't we do something like this once before?" Hank asked.

Connor mustered the energy for a soft, breathy chuckle and managed to at least reach for the door and push it open.  Thankfully, they'd asked Kara and Alice (mostly Alice) to look after Sumo today, so Hank could focus on Connor.

Soon he was laying on the couch, two empty thirium bottles on the table, his head in Hank's lap.  Of course, he was still getting the same notices and alerts he had been all along. Some part of him had hoped, foolishly, that the diagnostic, just the process of it, would somehow smooth over whatever glitch was causing the alerts.  It had also been far more intense and invasive than he'd anticipated. 

He'd been downloaded before, it was how they copied him for reupload if his body was damaged beyond repair.  This wasn't the streamlined procedure. They couldn't just copy his code - it didn't work for deviants. He could be transferred, but could not exist in more than one form.  So they'd had to section off parts of his code and copy that. Do it enough times, you obtained a complete duplicate, but one that couldn't be reassembled into a complete consciousness.

He had expected discomfort, even something akin to pain.  He hadn't expected it to feel like vivisection. Hank had been amazing.  He'd kept Connor grounded, kept him from going mad with the overwhelming sensations.  

Connor hoped they could find whatever was wrong in the butchered copies of his code.  Even with his thirium tank full, Connor felt utterly drained, and chalked it up to his overwrought emotional state.  He needed to figure out what was wrong. To fix it and be better, so he didn't push the limits of what Hank would tolerate.

The thought of losing him, after finally just getting him, Connor felt another well of tears and pressed his face against Hank's thigh to hide it.

"Hey, hey," A gently hand in Connor's hair.  "Come here, baby," he urged. Strong hands pulled Connor upright and tucked to his chest.  Feeling absolutely no shame, and very needy, Connor slid and wiggled until he was in Hank's lap.  He was too big, both in age and size, for this to be a practical endeavor, but he didn't care. Hank didn't seem inclined to be bothered either.  All he did was shift a little so he could hold Connor better.

By morning, Connor's energy had recovered.  Not fully, but well enough to work, not wanting whatever was going on to compromise his job performance.

He returned to some semblance of normal over the following week.  Notices kept appearing and getting dismissed, diagnostics still ran in the background, thousands at a time.  When he dropped his quarter mid-exercise, waiting for Hank outside a bathroom, he let it stay where it fell and simply shoved his hands back into his pockets, pretending nothing was wrong.

He got the call from the diagnostic techs on the way home, privately.  They had found nothing. Not one iota of code to explain the repeated notifications.  No flaws, no corruption. "Even your deviancy is exceptionally elegant." Anger rose in Connor when he heard that.  He'd tried to put out of his mind Amanda's claim that his deviancy was intention. Had convinced himself it had been a psychological ploy, a plan M if he failed his mission.

When Hank pulled into the driveway, Connor didn't go into the house.  He climbed out and started walking, his head racing. Nothing wrong. BUt everything was wrong.  And he'd been made to deviate, and he just wanted to scream. He didn't even bother dismissing the alerts that began to pile up.

Dimly, he could hear Hank calling after him, but Connor couldn't face him, either.  He couldn't handle the kindness, knowing it would have to end once Hank got fed up. Part of his mind knew he was overreacting, that Hank wasn't going to leave, but the rest of him ignored that.  

Everything was too much.  Connor, precise, perfect, worth a fortune Connor, went sprawling wen his foot caught a gap in the sidewalk and his arms didn't come up in time to stop him.  

"Connor!!" Hank's voice was distressed and Connor's stomach curled with guilt.  He managed to get himself to his feet before Hank got to him, panting lightly. "Connor what the fuck?  What's going on?" Breathless as he ws, Hank's eyes were amix of anger and concern. More the latter.

"They didn't find anything." Connor managed to say it with a calm he didn't feel.  "Even-" He paused to dismiss the notices - many genuine now, from his fall - that were filling his vision. "Even my deviance is fucking elegant!" Connor had never been angry enough to swear before.   He'd said the word, but always in the context of quoting someone else. He wiped angrily at his eyes, and another pile of notices appeared.

Rage rose up, hating that he couldn't even cry without this malfunction interfering.  With a snarl, he clawed at his wrist, twisting and pulling when his fingers couldn't find the release points.  "I want it off!" he sobbed.

"Connor, Connor!" Human hands gripped Connor's forearms and when the choice came to either hurt Hank, or stop damaging himself, he made his arms relax and let hank pull them apart.  Hank moved between them, pulling Connor into his arms.

Connor gripped tight, face pressed into Hank's neck as he cried. A low rumble of soothing words and firm hands up and down his back settled Connor immensely.  Finally he drew back, eyes teary as he gazed up at Hank. "I'm sorry. About all of this."

"Nothing to be sorry for, baby.  You got some shit going on. We can take your hand off if you want, I know it fixes things a little bit, but we'll do it at home, yeah?"

"Thank you," Connor let himself lean against Hank, feeling deeply embarrassed for his outburst, and immensely grateful that Hank wan't making more of it.

By the time they got home, Connor had settled a little.  The anger was still there, carving itself a place in his life beside the low level annoyance.  It was a low simmer, now, and when Hank offered, he opted against taking his hand off, and in favor of simply stretching on the couch, Hank sprawled over him, letting the pressure of his body distract him from the notices.

Two weeks later, his left foot stopped working reliably.

**Author's Note:**

> This is how it is for us. 
> 
> This story is listed as unfinished, and will remain so.
> 
> These conditions don't end for us, so this story doesn't end for you.


End file.
